Balsa de Ves

The petrol pump outside Casas de Ves is wrapped in police tape when we arrive. “Sin gasolina hasta mañana,” shrugs the owner, which is the first lesson of travelling in La Manchuela: fill up on the ring-road round Albacete or risk an involuntary siesta on the N-322. From that junction it is still 38 km of corkscrew tarmac to Balsa de Ves, climbing gently to 739 m until the cereal plains fold into low hills and the village appears – a tight cluster of terracotta roofs balanced on a limestone ridge.

At this height the plateau’s furnace heat softens. Summer afternoons still touch 38 °C, yet after dusk the thermometer slips to 19 °C and locals pull on fleece jackets to sit outside the Bar Central. The same altitude means winter arrives early: the first frosts can appear in late October and snow is not unheard-of, cutting the single access road for a day or two. April and late-September give the kindest air and clearest light, which is also when the wheat turns emerald before the gold sets in – photographers’ shorthand for “come now”.

A map for walkers, not tick-box tourists

Nobody comes here for cathedrals. The church of San Pedro is the size of a modest parish hall in Rutland; its bell rings the quarters because there is nothing else to compete with the wind. What the village does offer is mileage of unmarked tracks that fan out across the ridge, once mule paths linking threshing floors. Park by the old laundry trough (signposted “lavadero”) and take the stony lane that descends south-east towards Las Casas. Within twenty minutes you are among holm oaks and rosemary, the grain fields scrolling away like a beige ocean. The gradient is gentle, but carry water: shade is a negotiable concept on the meseta.

Serious hikers occasionally attempt the 19 km circular route that threads Balsa de Ves, Casas de Ves and Valdeganga. OS-style maps don’t exist at 1:25 000; instead download the free Castilla-La Mancha IGN sheets or trust the Wikiloc file uploaded by a Belgian bird-watcher last spring. His GPS shows 480 m of cumulative ascent – enough to justify the local saying “La Manchuela is flat, but never level”.

Wine that costs less than the taxi home

The village sits on the eastern fringe of the D.O. La Manchuela, a denomination created in 2000 to separate the better-oxygenated high vineyards from the baking plains further west. Two bodegas open their doors without appointment: Bodegas Verum and Casa de la Ermita. Tastings cost €7–€10 and the pour is generous. Expect crisp Macabeo and the indigenous Verdejo (not to be confused with the Rueda grape of the same name), both capable of refreshing anyone who has spent the morning tramping through wheat stubble. If you prefer red, ask for the Tempranillo “sin roble” – unoaked, lighter, and closer to a cool-climate Pinot than the usual Spanish blockbuster. Bottles leave the cellar at supermarket prices: €5–€8, which makes the tasting fee feel almost philanthropic.

The nearest restaurant is Mesón de Ves, 4 km back down the hill. Sunday lunch starts at 3 pm sharp; arrive at two and you will be offered a beer and a view of the cook stoking the wood oven. Order the asado de cabrito – kid goat slow-roasted until the ribs caramelise – or, for the less carnivorous, mojete, a room-temperature salad of roasted peppers and tomatoes that tastes of smoke and summer. A portion feeds two hungry Brits and costs €10; chips are available on request for anyone frightened by the idea of goat.

Beds, bikes and the cash drought

Accommodation within the village boundary amounts to eight rooms. Posada de Ves occupies a 19th-century wheat store restored with stone floors and beamed ceilings; doubles from €70 including breakfast toast thick enough to roof a shed. Ask in advance for one of the three free bikes – they still carry the Spanish “B” for Bicing logo nicked from Barcelona’s hire scheme, but the tyres hold air and the chain will get you to the next bar.

Do not expect to pay by card anywhere except the winery. The sole ATM stands on the wall of the Casa de Cultura and is frequently empty; when it does dispense notes the limit is €150. Bring cash or be prepared to drive 22 km to Iniesta, famous for having two cashpoints and a medieval castle nobody in Balsa mentions.

When the village wakes up

From November to March the place hibernates. The bar reduces its hours to “whenever Paco turns up”, and the bakery van visits twice a week instead of daily. Easter changes the tempo: processions on Maundy Thursday draw ex-pat villagers back from Alicante, swelling numbers enough to justify an extra tray of pestiños (honey-fritters). The real eruption comes in mid-August for the fiestas patronales. A sound rig appears in the main square, couples dance marathons of pasodoble until 4 am, and the council lays on a communal paella that needs a satellite dish-sized pan. If you dislike brass bands practising outside your window at dawn, book elsewhere for the second weekend of the month.

The rest of the year silence is the default soundtrack. Stand on the ridge at twilight and you will hear the combine harvesters grinding across the valley, a noise that carries for miles in the thin air. Nighthawks dive overhead; a shepherd’s bell clinks somewhere below. It is the kind of quiet that makes city visitors realise their ears have been ringing.

Getting out alive

Public transport is theoretical. The weekday bus from Albacete reaches Casas de Ves at 14:37 and departs at 05:52 next morning, which confines non-drivers to an overnight in the Posada whether they planned it or not. Hire cars at Albacete railway station start at €35 a day; reserve automatics well ahead because the fleet is small. The last 12 km to Balsa de Ves wriggle through limestone outcrops where Spanish drivers treat the centre line as decorative. Pull in at the lay-by marked “Mirador de la Manchuela” – the view east towards Cuenca is worth the stop and doubles as a sanity break if you have been tailgated by a tractor hauling a hay trailer wider than the lane.

Sat-nav will promise 55 minutes from Albacete; reality is 70–75 once you account for hay trailers, stray dogs and the sudden 40 km/h limit through every hamlet. Fill the tank, download offline maps and keep a bag of crisps in the glovebox in case the kitchen hasn’t fired up yet. Do all that and Balsa de Ves delivers the Spain that guidebooks insist has vanished: slow, soil-scented and stubbornly alive, provided you remember to bring cash.